I Shart The Sheriff holstered his guns by shrugging on a large sweater. Shit, San Francisco was cold and hilly. And he had far too little time to serve his mission, though it seemed Gobble My Ass and John Handcock were playing into his hand with each additional grueling mile of trail. But he could not let himself get distracted, not by the lure of a tantalizing backcheck, not by coy harriettes like Weekend at Abba’s and Weiner I Am, not even by Hand Pump’s offer of *wink, wink* a ride in his van.

No, our visitor’s goal tonight was simple, a single, governing question on his half-mind, which would drive him day and night—

His thoughts were interrupted by Just Doesn’t Get It crashing his way out of the bushes. “Worse than Primal Vagina,” the man muttered to himself, pulling briars out of his bulging thighs before darting off into the darkness.

The sounds of cracking branches did not abate—soon Buck Fucka followed JDGI’s path onto the trail, a red light beading on his forehead. “Duck!” I Shart The Sheriff cried, diving onto the man, just in time for Douchicorn to leap over them both. “They’re hunting us!” he claimed, pushing both hashers forwards along the trail, and all ran in terror to the beer check.

I Shart The Sheriff looked around at all of the suspects—erm, hashers, gathered together around the van. He knew he hadn’t long to complete his mission—they were definitely on to him. He watched suspiciously as Just Rebecca snuggled up to Silence of The Trans—what could she be hiding?

And No Shit over there… a change of hair color for Burning Man? A likely story. With Dick Simmons around, disguises were a must for a guilty soul.

And Just Jaci, Just Cam, and Just Ben—hiding in plain sight, most likely, with the latter even bringing virgins to appease his conscience. Between him and I Cunt Hear You, blackmail was likely in play for their newcomers.

At every turn of the head he grew more and more paranoid— The Perfect Woman? A little too perfect. Bitch’s Bitch? Whose bitch was he, anyway? Slug sounded like both a threat and a promise.

Returners Me No Engrish, Rhythm Method, and Sir Sponge Bob Splooge Pants all had good excuses, but he could see the holes *heh, heh* in their alibis.

But these were all convenient decoys, he suddenly realized, watching Fuck Buddy whispering something into Good Shit Lollicock’s ear. The true mastermind—

“Visitors!” called out Cockagami and Millimeter Peter, and I Shart The Sheriff was forced to respond.

He tried to entertain them—they mocked him. He tried to sing a song with them—but they were hopelessly out of key. Finally, he tried distracting them with a task which they could not complete, but those assholes just made him drink some more.

“Bleh,” he said to himself, belching slightly. “Fuck the San Francisco Hash House Harrrrers… Harriers.” Thighs aching, he eased himself into bed, starting when a warm body crashed down alongside him. “Did I miss circle?” Deadbeat asked him.

It wasn’t until the next morning, nursing a slight hangover (he must be out of practice) while perusing Facebook that the answer became clear.

A lone picture, innocent at first—Cockamole and Cunty Butler cringing in the background, a sprinting Just Liz running away up a very steep hill.

But it revealed the secret. It was then that he knew— while it was he that shart the sheriff, ‘twas Brown Eye who shart the deputy.